Windows to the Soul
by Chaotic-Masterpiece
Summary: Written in response to a livejournal challenge. Jareth learns what it means to be King.


**Written for LiveJournal Challenge 15**

**Challenge #15: A Portrait of a Young Man**

**Title: Windows to the Soul**

**Rating: T**

**Author's Notes: so excited to finally be participating in my first challenge here. This one could be interpreted as dark, depending on your definition. It's certainly not cheerful.**

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"No, father , please!" He cried, struggling against the hands that held him. "I'm not ready!"

The King simply gave him a stern look. "Jareth, life does not wait for us to be ready to accept our responsibilities. You will do this and will do it with honor. Do not embarrass yourself or disgrace my lineage with cowardice." He jerked his chin at the attendants restraining his son.

Jareth took a deep breath and tried desperately to compose himself under his father's intense scrutiny. He allowed himself to be led to the innocuous looking window frame, sitting himself down on the cushions as regally as he was able, shaking off the attendants hands with more force than necessary, zapping them with power and relishing their cries of pain. He folded his hands neatly in his lap but it did little to mask their trembling.

Under different circumstances, Jareth would have laughed at himself, all bluster and masculine pride, but the truth was, he was afraid.

Very afraid.

He cast a surreptitious glance to the portraits lining the gallery, the cold stares of his ancestors bearing down on him. They all told him to accept his fate, to join them, to surrender. He paled, felt his eyes fill with unwanted tears that he furiously blinked back, hoping they had gone unnoticed. Thunder crashed behind him and he jumped, his legs spasming with a surge of adrenaline.

"Jareth!" the King barked, "For God's sake, boy, compose yourself."

Jareth swallowed hard, "I don't think I can do this, father," he admitted shakily. "This wasn't supposed to be my burden to bear, I'm not ready for it." One traitorous tear escaped and rolled down his pale cheek.

His father had always been the gruff sort, but underneath that facade Jareth saw the same heartbreak, layered with a feverish desperation. "I know, son. But that's why it must be done now, to keep you safe," he said. "The kingdom needs an heir more then you need your freedom. I cannot afford to let you be selfish, my boy. Not after Nuhren." Jareth might have imagined it, but he could have sworn he saw the King's lips tremble just a bit at the mention of his murdered firstborn frightened prince nodded tightly, and his father clapped him on the shoulder before he turned, nodded to the artist, and left.

She was an older woman, squat and sturdy, with gray streaked mousy brown hair roughly pulled back into a knot at the base of her neck. "Are we ready to begin, your majesty?" she asked in a soft, clear voice. At his short nod, the artist selected a paint brush with care, approaching his tense form.

The closer she came, the less he could hide his anxiety, every muscle in his body taut as a bowstring, ever so slightly leaning away from her. His breath came in short bursts through his nose since he didn't think he could unclench his jaw.

"Your majesty, please, try to relax. You will feel no pain during this portion of the process." Her words did little to comfort him, but he managed to lower his shoulders and sit up straight. He resisted the urge to jerk away when he felt the delicate weathered hands on his upper arms.

The artist ran her hands gently over his shoulders and across the expanse of his chest before moving up to his neck to carefully trace the features of his face, the tips of his ears and feel the texture of his hair. The paintbrush she had selected was retrieved from a pocket of her smock and he eyed it with distrust before she bid him to close his eyes.

He felt the soft bristles of the brush on his eyelids, on the contours of his brows, the soft curve of his lips, and the other fine details of his face. A tingling sensation followed in the wake of the paintbrush as the artist chanted under her breath. The tingles morphed into a sensation of strings being pulled from his skin, especially his eyes as the artist retreated back to her easel.

"Now you must sit very still, your majesty, I will begin the outline. Stay calm and relaxed, and take measured, even breaths. You may feel some slight discomfort at this point, but I will warn you when you must brace yourself." Her tone was gentle, but brooked no argument.

He watched as the artist began his portrait, beginning with broad, sweeping strokes as she outlined his torso, trying to ignore the mild tingles he felt on his shoulders and chest. It would be difficult to simply let his mind wander as his painting commenced, but he was determined to try, if for no other reason than to attempt to keep his expression natural instead of broadcasting his unhappiness and fear. With any luck, he might look as confident and imposing as his ancestors that looked on in stony silence.

As the sensations moved to his face and intensified, he focused on his future. He had always planned on roaming the Underground and Above like a leaf on the wind with the vigor of youth. Settling down had been a notion for much later, and only after finding a stunning beauty with as much fire in her soul as he did. Being tied down was not something he had ever planned on. Nuhren had always been the heir, Jareth the spare. His older brother had been ready, would have been a much better king than Jareth could ever hope to be.

But when the Goblin Rebellion captured, tortured and murdered his brother four weeks ago, Jareth watched his father fly into a rage, sending legions of soldiers to decimate the Goblin Kingdom, crushing the rebellion with a ferocity that left no room for mercy. Hurt and angry at the death of his brother, Jareth had not given much thought of what the implications of Nuhren's demise meant for the spare who was now the heir.

When victory had been achieved, the enemy left in subjugated ruin, the High King had come to his only remaining child with the demand that his royal portrait be done in a fortnight. And just like that, Jareth watched his dreams of freedom crumble before his very eyes, his wings clipped, if not torn off entirely.

Jareth didn't know how much time had elapsed since the cursed painting had begun, but the tingles were beginning to become painful as the artist began to focus in on his face. Just like the kings that had come before, Jareth was sitting regally, patiently waiting as the old woman forged his shackles in vibrant color. But even as he tried his best to look brave, he knew it was futile.

"Your majesty, the eyes are next. Try to remain calm and still," she called from behind her enormous canvas, her frazzling hair the only part he could see of his jailer.

"W-will it hurt?" He hated himself for the tremor in his voice, but he couldn't stop himself from asking.

The woman leaned over and smiled at him sympathetically, picking up the brush she had used on his skin. "Only a little," she lied.

The pain was immediate and excruciating, blazing behind his eyes as he fought not to cry out. With each stroke the pain forged deeper, burrowing back into his skull and then drilling down to where his heart hammered in his chest as he gasped in desperate breaths and shallow heaves. Tears escaped his eyes as the white hot pain intensified, and Jareth imagined he could feel a tearing within himself, leaving jagged wounds behind.

He had read before that there were tribes of humans Above that had somehow discovered (he imagined his cousin Puck to be the culprit, in truth) that capturing a likeness of someone was to capture their soul. Luckily for them (and Puck) even though those factions of humanity were more advanced than most of their kind, humans as a whole were not developed enough to have mastered the magic of their world that would allow such a thing to happen. Part of him envied those Above, blissful in their ignorance as he suffered dearly for the good of the Underground.

Jareth closed his eyes against the pain as it reached blinding intensity and he screamed until his throat felt raw. "Open your eyes," the painter demanded with authority, and Jareth knew he had no choice but to finish. To stop now would only prolong his pain. Whimpering involuntarily, he opened his burning eyes, unseeing.

The pain reached a shattering crescendo and Jareth thought for a moment that he would embrace death with open arms if only to deliver him from this torment. Slowly, blessedly, he began to feel a strange numbness as his soul escaped into his portrait through his eyes, the windows to the soul. It left an aching hole within his chest, throbbing with every beat of his battered heart. He would likely mourn the trapping of his soul later, along with what was likely the death of his youth, but anything was better than the agony he had just endured.

With one final flick of her brush, the artist finished the royal portrait of the Goblin King, future High King of the Underground like his father. The task of royal portraits had been passed down her family for generations, each successive painter warned of the trauma they would induce upon the seemingly fearless monarchs, reducing them to trembling, screaming wrecks. It was never easy to steal a soul, but as she surveyed her work sadly, she knew that this one had been harder than most. It was a heartbreaking sight, the handsome new king's eyes hurt and afraid. As much as she tried to keep her own emotions out of her work, she had to admit she felt for the young man. He had a difficult road ahead of him, forged by heartbreak and tempered with revenge. She hoped he would find peace some day as she waited to apply the sealant.

Unaware of the artist's scrutiny, Jareth took in a deep, ragged breath, trying to fill the hole in his chest without success. It was done. He was now bound to the Underground for the rest of his very, very long life. So long as his soul remained Below, he would never be free. He was never supposed to be King.

He hated the Goblins over whom he now planned to rule with an iron fist for all they had done to him. Murdering his brother, trapping him into a crown he never wanted. Feverishly, he distracted himself from the emptiness inside by making plans. Walls, mazes, traps and tortures, the stupid beasts would never know safety or comfort ever again. All his dreams for the future were gone. He knew, deep in his stolen soul that no one could ever love a Goblin King, so he would give them a villain they would fear and obey without question.

He only hoped his brother would be proud.

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**There you have it! Please review**!


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